The path we must walk
by IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: Everyone has a path to walk, full of problems, sadness, pain. But the biggest part is joy, or in Mycroft's case, the growing love to his brother, which soon started to be non-platonic… xxx Sherlock/Mycroft Holmescest xxx


Mummy was crying. Her sobs were loud enough to reach him in his room, lying underneath the blankets just to save himself from the pain. It was dark outside, already the middle of a cold, rainy night. The constant ticking of the clock standing next to his bed was the only sound he could hear besides his mother's crying.

She sounded like she was in pain, in terrible pain. There were sounds of breaking glass as something fell on the floor, and burst into thousands of shards.

A new voice joined her in her loud crying, far higher than Mummy's voice. It reminded him of the sounds of crying children, the little babies he sometimes saw when his parents took him to the doctor. The playground was always full of them, little children running around with dirt covering their clothes, sometimes they fell down and started to cry.

Those noises sounded exactly like the new voice. Only that this crying was purer, higher, it reminded him more of an angel than a little child without memory and the power to repress its animalistic instincts, like crying, eating, and sleeping.

He was curious, his fingers twitching as he carefully removed the sheets from his head, ginger hair falling in his face to cover his eyes. Light was falling through the gap between door and the floor of his room, he saw the shadow of a person leaving the room next to him pass by. Someone opened another door, the crying followed him or her downstairs.

He jumped out of his bed, cold and bare feet touching the rugless floor, and walked to the door, not reaching out for the knob or getting close enough for someone to see his toes or his shadow. His back still hurt, the aftermath of his father's anger, and he didn't know what to do.

It was forbidden for him to leave his room. The door was probably locked and he was sure that he wouldn't be able to find a way out. Even if he could pick the lock, the sounds would be too loud and he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

The persons, four of them, quietly talking to each other, entered the room next to his. He almost let out a sigh as he heard their voices through the wall, already getting back into his bed just in case, they wanted to check if he was doing what he had been told.

"He is healthy, a bit tiny, but there's no need to worry," one of the voices said, a man, from the sound of his voice tired, exhausted, and old. "I'm going to visit you every morning and evening to check on him. Make sure he doesn't come into contact with anything that could do harm or be dirty."

"Do you have a name for him, sir?" a female voice asked, the sound of a pen scratching on a paper caught his attention, "We need to draw up the birth certificate."

**Sir**. People only called his father sir. But a name, a name for whom? What was going on in there? Ideas crossed his mind, but he didn't trust them - in his current state, he couldn't trust his mind. Another cry which was quickly muted.

"His name is Sherlock," the loud, low voice of his father made the boy jump in surprise, fingers grasping the fabric of his pyjama to stop himself from shivering. "Violet, stop his crying. A Holmes doesn't cry."

People left the room, their footsteps echoing loudly because of the empty, cold corridor outside. The crying was almost too silent to be heard, it sounded like someone was pressing his or her hand to the mouth of the source, but he still managed to hear it. His ears had always been finer than the other children of his age. He could hear silent whispers, something like 'A Holmes doesn't cry' and 'Stop, you aren't allowed to cry'.

His stomach turned rapidly, but he lay down as he heard someone opening his door, he perfectly faked being asleep. Light flooded the room. The large silhouette of his father was watching him for a few seconds before everything went dark again.

He tried to close his eyes, but Mycroft couldn't manage to fall sleep.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

As he went downstairs for breakfast the next day, a tiny figure sitting on the chair next to the place where his mother was normally located caught his attention immediately.

Big, blue-grey eyes reminding him of his own were watching him with the purest and happiest expression he has ever seen. Short arms lifted themselves while the creature reached out for him, closing his hands just to open them a few seconds later, this pattern repeated itself every minute at least twice. It opened its mouth, but not words left it, just a sound like babbling or someone speaking with water in their mouth.

"Mycroft, that's your brother, Sherlock," his father said without looking up from his newspaper and turned the page. "Have you finished your studies?"

Mycroft silently laid the papers on the table next to his father's plate and entwined his fingers, still staring at the… creature.

Brother?

His sibling. A relative of second class with identical ancestors like his, child of the same parents. His flesh and blood.

He watched and titled his head as the baby tried to move, but failed. Not able to move? Obviously not able to speak, whatever it was what was leaving the child's mouth, it wasn't from any languages he knew or had heard of. Salvia dropped on the baby's hands, leaving its mouth and equinia pouring out of his nose.

Sherlock.

"_Setz dich Sohn,_" his father said in fluent German and pointed at the chair opposite to his. "_Wir unterhalten uns nun über das Politiksystem in Deutschland. Was weißt du darüber_?"

_**("Sit down, son. We are going to talk about the political system in Germany. What do you know about that?")**_

Mycroft obeyed and sat down, not letting the baby out of sight. It already had higher cheekbones than normal, he'd seen a few pictures of new-born babies and has memorised their typical looks. Whenever Sherlock looked at him, his eyes began to glow brighter and he opened his mouth to say something.

Something hit Mycroft's head and he flinched, quickly looking at his father again. The newspaper now lay convoluted in his right hand, he held a knife in his left. His eyes were burning with anger and Mycroft lowered his head, silently begging for mercy he knew he would never get.

"_Das politische System in Deutschland, ich möchte mich ungern wiederholen, Sohn__._"

_**("The political system in Germany, I would rather not repeat myself, son.")**_

Mycroft's eyes never left the ones of his father as he quickly told him everything he knew about the subject. Next to him, the baby began to cry, his sounds quickly muted by his father's hand. Sherlock began to shake and cried louder, but father didn't remove his hand. A servant came and took the baby out of his sight.

Mycroft's heart tightened in pain.

He was the big brother. His task was to make sure his brother would never get hurt.

And he would try his best to keep the boy safe as long as he could.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

In the evening, as his parents were gone, an invitation to a prom at an estate Mycroft had been to for dancing lessons before. They left at sunset, but he waited until it was almost midnight before running into the room next to his, Sherlock's.

The servants, even after being given the instruction to keep him in his room like always, didn't interfere. He was alone on this floor; maybe they knew he wanted some time alone with his brother or maybe they just didn't care.

Whatever it was that caused them to stay away from him and the room, he was thankful for it.

He silently opened the door and turned the lights on as soon as he had closed it. The room was empty, and cold, the only furniture was the little cradle standing in the middle of the room. In it lay Sherlock, eyes closed and breath steady, calm.

Mycroft got closer until he could easily reach out, but he didn't, too afraid that the baby might start to scream and that the servants would scold him for it. He imagined the skin to be soft, untouched, and pure without any scars and bruises like his own, full with freckles and marks of his father's punishment whenever he was too slow, his answers too unclear or short.

"I didn't had the time to introduce myself," he whispered silently and got on his knees to be on the same height like the little head, "I am Mycroft, your brother, and I swear, I'm going to protect you from everything that might harm you. You won't suffer like I had to."

Shyly, he lent down after standing up again and placed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, the tiny boy starting to move and to turn around almost every second. He took the hand in both his own and looked at them, a smile slowly spreading on his face.

"No matter what Mummy and Father are going to tell you, you are allowed to cry. The bravest man is the one who admits he's afraid, brother." He knew that the baby would forget his words immediately, but he had to say them, the words rushing out of his mouth like water from a waterfall. "And I know you are going to be braver than Father, Mummy, or I will ever be."

Footsteps. He quickly got up, sighing in relief as Sherlock stopped turning around and began to move his fingers in his sleep, and left the room. The sound came from the steps, probably the servants to check if he was in his chamber. It took him only a few seconds to return in his own room, his room full with books, maps and papers, and to lie down just in time.

The door opened and the servant looked down on him, his face blank and without any emotion.

As soon as he left and Mycroft was no longer able to hear the footsteps, he sneaked out just to bring Sherlock a blanket, slowly wrapping him in it before lying in his own bed again.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

"Get out of my sight."

Blood dripped from his mouth on the floor in front of him, one drop after another. The taste was in his mouth, metallic, organic and it made his mind sick because he should be used to it, but he wasn't.

Another kick hit him in the stomach. No sound left his mouth but a surprised gasp, which was quickly punished with another kick. Blood covered the former black, beautifully clean shoe his father wore. He could see the disgust in his father's face; the cold, emotionless eyes looking down on him like a bird watched the moron on the ground.

"I said, get out of my sight, son," his father repeated the third time, looking down on him. "Leave coward. Isn't that what you want? Sneaking out with the monstrosity named Sherlock, playing in the garden until you are dirty…"

The big hands of his father gripped his hair and pulled him up until his feet didn't touch the ground anymore. Mycroft tried to look away, but the grip was too strong, forcing him to stare in his father's cold, demonic eyes.

"Like little children," he spat out and growled. "You have to study, to learn until you are flawless! It is your task and the instructions I gave you!"

He let him fall down again, the loud crack echoing through his mind as he fell directly on his arm, tears rushing to his eyes.

"You don't want to disappoint me, do you?"

Mycroft shook his head and tried to get up, body shaking and legs hurting like someone just broke every single bone in them. His shirt was soaked in blood, his pants wet around his crotch. Father looked down and snorted, waiting for the answer with his fists already about to punch. Mycroft opened his mouth and blood floated out of it.

"No, sir," he managed to say and lowered his head, "I am sorry, sir."

Father turned around and let something fall, a new book, now soaked with blood and urine. Mycroft got on his knees and took it, despite his visible disgust and pain, not daring to move anymore.

"You are going to give me a presentation tomorrow about the last 100 years in Britain and every single war. And I warn you, I'm not going to show mercy next time when you forget a date."

He left the room and bright light fell into it. A servant passed by, but didn't look at him for one second. Mycroft spit blood on the floor in front of him, wincing in pain as he got up and tried to stand. His legs were shaking and he fell down with a silent cry, elbows hitting the floor with a quiet crack. Tears dropped in the pool of blood and urine.

It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last, not until he was perfect in his father's eyes. He was his father's child, Sherlock their mother's and she treated him like he was an angel, the most precious thing in the world while she hated Mycroft with such a passion that he was afraid she might kill him one day.

He closed his eyes and let out a breath he had been holding, crawling to the wall to sit up. His shirt was soaked with blood, a dark spot on his crotch. Shame rushed through his body and he shook his head, wishing to die.

"Myc?"

Mycroft looked up and blinked against the light. A small figure was standing in the doorframe, barefoot and dressed in a big dressing grown whose ends covered his feet. Sherlock, he realised as a childish face looked down on him and dark, curly hair was wiped away from it.

"Sherlock?" he asked and bit his tongue to prevent himself from crying out in pain as he moved a bit, trying to hide the blood. "Can't you sleep?"

Sherlock shook his head and shyly went to him, avoiding the pool and sat down next to him, his head resting on Mycroft's shoulder.

"Another nightmare?"

"I've been followed by a big, nasty dragon and he always screamed at me."

Mycroft tried to smile and stroked Sherlock's hair, ignoring his pain. "Dragons don't exist, Sherlock."

"But if?" Sherlock pouted and wrapped his skinny arms around Mycroft, pressing his body against the elder boy's.

Mycroft leant in his direction and kissed Sherlock's mouth, smiling as the five-year old boy chuckled. "Then I'll be your knight. Your protector. Your guardian. And I'll slay the dragon and it won't hurt you again."

Sherlock nodded and fell asleep in this position. He smiled. A warm feeling rushed through Mycroft's body as he saw the smile, the most angelic one he has ever seen. The blood still dropped on the floor, but he didn't care, if he moved, Sherlock would wake up. He ignored the pain and kissed Sherlock's eyelids, the reaction of his little brother a silent chuckle.

"I love you, Sherlock," he whispered quietly and tried to sleep, but nightmares kept him awake…

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

"Myc!"

He looked up from his work and smiled. It was a warm day, the sun shining brightly and no clouds covering the blue sky, and they were outside. Their parents were gone, an important meeting in France they had to attend to, the servants ignoring their instruction to keep them in the house where they couldn't do anything childish.

His hands were dirty as he used the back of his hand to wipe his sweat away, dirt under his nails and blossoms in his hair. He rolled his sleeves up and sighed, his neck cracking slightly as he moved it from one side to the other. A root lay in his hand, the hole in the ground already waiting for it. The gardener stood behind him, watching him as he placed the root in the hole and covered it in dirt before he got up.

Sherlock was running around in the garden, wearing Mycroft's coat like a cape. His face was dirty, like his pants and his elbows, but he didn't care and neither did Mycroft nor the servant guarding him from afar. He was laughing, hands spread to the side like wings. He looked like a crow with his black coat, the black shirt and dark dirt covering his pale skin.

The gardener took the shovel out of Mycroft's hands and gestured him to go to his brother. Mycroft did, trying to adjust his clothes after working in the dirt of their garden for hours. He always had been intrigued in botany and plants. While Sherlock had just discovered the dangerous side of science - he loved to deal with explosions and chemical reactions, loved to write the formulas down just to show Mycroft the results with a bright grin on his face - and even loved the dangers, Mycroft enjoyed the calm side to science. Of course, dealing with plants had subtle dangers - poisons, quick and venomous, painful and painstakingly slow dangers. But he was fascinated by the smells, the colours. Sherlock said the only thing interesting him about plants were the oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange they conducted with the human race.

Botany clearly was Mycroft's field and together with the gardener, whenever their parents weren't at home, he took care of the flowers, herbs, and little trees.

Just to allow Sherlock to destroy them in his childish play. He jumped and made a sound close to the shriek of a crow before landing again, just to take enough start up to jump again. Mycroft chuckled and went to Sherlock, caught him and lifted him up.

"Look, I'm flying!" Sherlock laughed and moved his arms as if he was flapping with his wings.

"Just try not to fall down," Mycroft swirled around, laughing at Sherlock's hiccup of surprise. "Move along with the wind. Fly not too close to the sun, nor too close to the sea, but to follow the path of the wind."

"My wings aren't made of wax, they can't melt in the sun!"

Mycroft chuckled and threw Sherlock slightly in the air above him, the little boy flapping his arms and laughed before he caught him again, nuzzling his neck. "You are a little crow, brother-mine."

"I'm a Tengu demon, Myc!"

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. "You are?"

Sherlock nodded and, as Mycroft let him down again, began to bounce. "I am!"

"Why? You clearly aren't a demon."

Sherlock stopped to smile and titled his head. "I have a broken wing", he pointed at his left arm, currently broken because of an accident involving him falling down from the tree in the garden, "So I have no clan anymore and I cannot use my wings. But you helped me to fly, didn't you? So you are my Senka, my chosen mate, and therefore, I am going to spirit you away."

Mycroft smiled and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Where are you bringing me to?"

Sherlock took his hand and brought him to the willow in the garden, the biggest tree around small ones, an old one with engravings and beautiful leaves. Sherlock tried to climb up, but failed and Mycroft helped him to get up before he followed him, leaning against the phylum with Sherlock sitting on his lap.

"You smell like flowers," Sherlock whispered and leant against Mycroft, arms wrapped around him and curls tickling Mycroft's skin, "and herbs."

"I worked in the garden," he answered and chuckled, "of course you can smell the flowers."

"Can you kiss me?"

Sherlock looked up to Mycroft, his eyes shining brightly, he was smiling. The question had been asked shyly, almost as if Sherlock was afraid of rejection. Mycroft leant down and kissed the lips of his little brother briefly.

Sherlock chuckled and grinned. "You need to shower."

"So do you."

"Never mind, you smell wonderful," Sherlock yawned and closed his eyes, nuzzling Mycroft's neck. "Let me sleep."

The elder Holmes smiled and stroked Sherlock's hair, trying to loosen knots and to comb through it with his fingers. The little boy purred slightly and dozed off, his breath calm and steady. Mycroft asked himself if everything would change when Sherlock got older, not seven years old anymore but a teenager or an adult. He wouldn't want his brother so close to him and it made Mycroft's heart tighten at the thought.

"Mycroft?"

He looked down on a servant who stood under the tree, watching the both Holmes with a slight smile. "Your parents are going to come home earlier; your studies are lying in your room. Mrs. Holmes wants to take Sherlock out to a trip in the park."

Mycroft nodded and turned his head to Sherlock, placing a kiss on his brother's head as he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the fear of facing his father after a meeting which had been cancelled.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

A month later, Sherringford was hospitalized. They had found him in his room, due to a heart attack caused by an argument with their mother ending with him beating her close to death. Mycroft knew he lay there because of his liver, the alcohol slowly destroying it, and not just the heart attack; but Mummy had enough money to make sure no one would find out.

He and Sherlock sat outside in front of the door as Mummy came out, crying, her face a bloody mess with bruises, blood dripping like tears from her cheeks. The doctor left without saying anything to them, everyone ignored them. Mummy sat down next to them, phone in her hands while she was texting their father's superiors.

"Will he be okay?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking up to his brother who sighed and continued to stroke his hair. "He's… he's not dying, is he?"

Mycroft shook his head, trying to hide his feelings behind a smile. "He will be fine, Sherlock." he said and kissed Sherlock's forehead, ignoring the angry glance of Mummy as he did.

She never liked when he touched Sherlock, even with Sherlock being the one who mostly initialized it. In her eyes, her eldest son was the devil, her youngest an angel. He didn't mind, she never beat him like Sherringford did, always attacked him with words and tried to take Sherlock away from him. As long as she kept Sherlock safe from his wrath and anger and made him happy, he would accept her hatred. Even if her words hurt, like knives slowly stabbing his chest.

He unconsciously closed his free hand around his left wrist, felt the tiny scars he had left with his father's pocket knife. He still felt the pain, a slight burning rushing through his body whenever something touched the skin of his arm.

The doctor came back with a file in his hand. Even if he tried to speak quietly to Mummy, Sherlock and Mycroft understood every word. Father's liver was almost completely destroyed, and his heart too weak. Hidden behind the medical terms and numbers, Mycroft understood that he was dying. Not today, not this year, but soon.

And Sherlock understood it too, even if he didn't know that _jecur _meant liver and that _cardiac_ was the heart, he understood that their father was close to death. Even if he was smart, far more grown-up than other children in his age, he reacted like Mycroft would have in his age: He ran.

He jumped from Mycroft's lap and ran away, Mycroft immediately following him. They had spent plenty of time here, mostly when Sherlock broke something or the injuries Sherringford had given Mycroft were too bad for him to heal at home, so he easily found the stairs up to the roof.

It was cold outside, their breath visible in the air. The sounds from the street weren't audible, only a soft murmur in the background. Sherlock had been faster than Mycroft and sat on the edge, feet dangling. He was crying, tears silently running over his cheek as the elder boy sat down next to him and wrapped his arms around the tiny, skinny body without saying anything.

Sherlock just looked up to the sky, the stars shining down on them, the moon hidden behind clouds. Mycroft saw constellations, one brighter and bigger than the others and pointed at it.

"Can you see Aquila?" he asked quietly and smiled as Sherlock concentrated on the stars, "and Andromeda?"

Sherlock shook his head and let his head rest on Mycroft's shoulder. He began to stroke Sherlock's hair while pointing at the constellation, remembering the myth he had once read.

"Cassiopeia, the mother of the chained lady Andromeda, boasted that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, even more beautiful than the gods. Poseidon, the brother of Zeus and the god of the seas, took great offense at this statement, for he had created the most beautiful beings ever in the form of his sea nymphs. In his anger, he created a great sea monster, Cetus to ravage the seas and sea coast. Since Cassiopeia would not recant her claim of beauty, it was decreed that she must sacrifice her only daughter, the beautiful Andromeda, to this sea monster. So Andromeda was chained to a large rock projecting out into the sea and was left there to await the arrival of the great sea monster Cetus. As Cetus approached Andromeda, Perseus arrived. He had just killed the gorgon Medusa and was carrying her severed head in a special bag. When Perseus saw the beautiful maiden in distress, like a true champion he went to her aid. Facing the terrible sea monster, he drew the head of Medusa from the bag and held it so that the sea monster would see it. Immediately, the sea monster turned to stone. Perseus then freed the beautiful Andromeda and, claiming her as his bride, took her home with him as his queen to rule. For her beauty, after her death the stars took her form to preserve it and to show the gods that someone was much more beautiful than their creations could ever be."

Sherlock titled his head. "I don't think she is beautiful."

Mycroft chuckled. "Neither do I, but remember, she is old now. She lived hundreds of years ago or even more. The time has changed her."

They looked at the stars, neither of them saying anything for a while. Sherlock turned around until he could embrace his brother. "You are shivering."

"It's cold up here, Sherlock," he answered, even if that wasn't the reason why he shivered. He hoped their father would get healthy again; he didn't want Sherlock to grow up without a father, without someone who could save him from Mummy. Father had always hated how she treated Sherlock, like a prince, and Mycroft like a curse. Without him…

"Liar," Sherlock's lips touched Mycroft's chin, something like a sparkle rushing through his body, warmth, comfort, and something else. "I don't like it when you lie."

"I'm sorry," he sighed and lifted Sherlock into his lap, nuzzling his neck. "Are you warm?"

He looked down to see his brother blushing, avoiding his glance shyly. Confusion caused him to raise his eyebrow, but he decided not to comment on it. He was puzzled, feelings he couldn't understand and didn't want leaving him speechless and silent while his brother's fast heartbeat synchronised with his own, a steady rhythm.

"I love you Myc," Sherlock whispered and kissed Mycroft's lips, a shy smile on his lips.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

His intonation was different than before, it reminded him more of the 'I love you' he sometimes heard couples saying to each other, a woman to a man. He frowned, unsure how to react. It was the first time he asked himself what the difference between the 'I love you' siblings said to each other and the one lovers used.

And he was directionless.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

The sparkle he had felt followed him wherever he went. As soon as Sherlock entered the room, he felt something in his gut, a warm feeling spreading out over his entire body before he succeeded in controlling it. He tried to avoid Sherlock as much as possible, a difficult task considering the sudden interest his brother had in everything Mycroft did.

Where Mycroft was, Sherlock was, and that didn't change, not as Sherlock celebrated his eighth birthday alone with Mycroft sitting in the willow, not as they went to the beach on their vacation to celebrate Mycroft's eighteenth birthday, no one around them as they played in the sand, laughed and swam in the ocean. Mycroft caught his brother staring at him sometimes, his expression sometimes blank, but as soon as their glances met, Sherlock blushed and looked down, quickly busying himself with something else.

Their father left the punishment in Mummy's hands and she did it with an almost sick pleasure. Mycroft could have moved out easily, he had already finished school by sixteen, but he didn't want to leave his brother alone with those demons.

The older Sherlock got, the more beautiful he became.

Mycroft had always known his brother would be gorgeous one day, but he would have never guessed that his beauty would be that strong. He admired the curly, dark hair of his brother, the bright eyes, the pale skin, and his tall body, still a lot smaller than Mycroft's, but impressive for his age. He was graceful, never took a step too much or got dirty, even after playing in the garden.

The violin was his favourite instrument after Mycroft had played it for him and after a few months, they played together, Mummy was proud that Sherlock had been able to learn such a difficult instrument in such a short time; they didn't tell her Mycroft had taught him.

He admired Sherlock's skills from afar, silently smiling whenever Mummy showed her pride and gave Sherlock gifts, hid his grin whenever she asked his brother how he managed to learn the piano in such a short time, why he was able to speak Russian almost fluently. Mycroft watched everything, a silent guardian protecting his brother from demons and evil.

His body was already covered in bruises and he continued to get more, not a single day went by without punishment for mistakes he didn't make. It was his path, the path he had to walk, always protecting and suffering.

But he tried to avoid touching his brother and Sherlock somehow understood, he never sneaked into Mycroft's bedroom after a nightmare again. Mycroft could sometimes hear him, sitting in front of Mycroft's door the whole night before he went into his own room again; Mycroft sometimes wished to open it, to hug Sherlock, and to kiss his fear away.

But he couldn't.

Not with those thoughts crossing his mind. He sometimes looked at his brother and wanted to kiss him, not like a brother would kiss his sibling, but like a lover. Sometimes, he dreamed about an adult Sherlock, saw those bright eyes as the elder version of his brother kissed him, hugged him, and whispered things into his ear, the promises still floating around his mind as he woke up, sweat running over his cheek, heartbeat fast, and body warm.

He wanted to kiss his brother. He was in love with his brother, attracted to him, wanted him to sleep in the same bed with Mycroft and to wake up with him every day.

It was disgusting to think it, but he couldn't stop, every night, the images came back and he woke up, hating himself for destroying their close relationship with such thoughts.

He was confused, not only by his own mind, but by Sherlock's behaviour. He was staring at Mycroft a lot, sometimes even writing down something in his notes. Sometimes, he just watched, as if he wasn't there, his body just an empty shell.

It made Mycroft blush more than once and every time, Mummy saw it and she made sure to hit him harder. He wanted it to stop, but didn't run away. Just to make sure Sherlock was okay.

Sherlock's fourteenth birthday was a day of change. Or better, it happened in the night. Mycroft lay awake after a dream, another one with him kissing a grown-up Sherlock - though not like normal in the bedroom, but in the garden of a big estate, under a willow looking almost like the on in their garden - and cuddling, as his door was opened.

Sherlock stepped in after he looked down on Mycroft for a while, trying to avoid Mycroft's glance as he lay down to his brother, face buried in Mycroft's hair. He was shaking, only slightly, and slipped under the sheets to get warmer. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and cuddled against him to give him more warmth and comfort.

He didn't ask what was wrong, Sherlock would either tell him if he wanted to or wouldn't. Either way was okay for Mycroft. He enjoyed the closeness to his brother, something his mind and body had been aching for since the event on the rooftop, inhaled Sherlock's scent and closed his eyes.

"Myc?"

"Mmh?"

Sherlock moved until he could reach Mycroft's lips with his own, placing a soft kiss on them before he turned around again. Mycroft tried to sleep, but failed, his heart beating fast and his mind full of images.

And one special wish.

To wake up with Sherlock forever like that.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

"Mycroft? Mycroft, bloody hell, open the door!"

He didn't bother looking up and continued to stare at the wall, the water running over his skin and soaking his clothes. The water was mixed with blood, the floor of his shower soon a red pool. His fingers were shaking as he slowly removed the bullet from his arm, the pain causing him to hiss. Another knock, the sound as if wood was breaking.

So Sherlock made it through the entrance door.

"Let me in, you idiot! You are wounded!"

Of course he was. Two bullet wounds in his arm and right leg, several cuts from shards as he pushed Sherlock through the window to save him from the attack, saving him with his own body. He couldn't remember how he had managed to get away from the scene before the police had arrived and he couldn't remember how he had locked the door before getting under the shower, but he remembered Sherlock's words, exactly, every single word.

He had been lying on the floor with his body shaking in pain, Sherlock sitting next to him. Kissing him to calm him down. The last time they had kissed had been on the willow on the day when Mycroft had finally moved out, as he couldn't bear their mother anymore. Thirty years, at least.

Three silent words. 'I love you.'

"Mycroft, please! Let me in!"

He didn't know why he didn't let Sherlock in, the question haunting his mind. Was it because he was afraid Sherlock might find out of which nature Mycroft's love was? Or because he didn't want to be seen so weak? Whatever it was, it was silly, but he didn't fight against it. He couldn't move, the pain left his body numb; a bloody mess.

"Brother!" Sherlock cried out.

The door burst as Sherlock kicked it open, his coat a whirling motion, like dark wings. Sherlock looked down on him and sighed, already taking his coat off to wrap it around Mycroft. His pants got soaked with blood and water as he knelt down, slowly stroking Mycroft's wet hair.

"Where do you keep your first aid kit?" he asked, but had already found it and began to bandage Mycroft's wounds. "You idiot."

"What do you want?"

He could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes and opened his eyes as his brother stopped, taking Mycroft's hands in his own.

"I want to save you from dying because of blood loss."

His body sent shivers through Mycroft's body as Sherlock got closer, lips almost touching Mycroft's. Sherlock smiled, already deducing the reaction. Mycroft waited for him to run away. To do anything, yelling affronts, and telling him that was disgusting.

But he didn't.

Suddenly Sherlock's lips were on Mycroft's, a brief contact for a few seconds. Mycroft was too surprised to kiss back or to do anything. All he could do was stare, confused, dumbfounded, and taken-off guard. As Sherlock began to speak, he sounded slightly amused.

"Why so surprised, brother? I told you that I love you, isn't it a logical reaction to kiss you to prove that?" he chuckled quietly and wiped wisps of Mycroft's hair away from his eyes. "I've known that you return my feelings since I was seven, if I remember correctly, and after today, I decided to show you my love."

"But…" Mycroft started, but Sherlock silenced him with a kiss.

"I realised that my feelings weren't platonic on the rooftop, I'm sure you noticed my blush. Really, it was obvious."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "You never cease to surprise me."

Sherlock chuckled. "I hope so, now, let us go outside, I haven't been in your garden for a long time."

Far too long, in Mycroft's opinion.

_The shortest distance  
Between two points  
Is the line  
From me to you_

* * *

I wrote this oneshot for stalkerholmessyndrome on tumblr. I'm writing RPs with her and a few lines from this oneshot are from one of ours.

The title and the lyrics at the end of this oneshot are from the song "Between two points" by Glitch Mob feat. Swan.

* * *

Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this.


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